Case of the Vanishing Stammer
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly doesn't stammer in Sherlock's presence anymore. Does he miss it? And what can he do about it? Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, had no real reason to be in the basement lab at St. Bart's Hospital. He was between cases, there were no interesting corpses to be found, and his experiments had all been completed. But he was bored. And a bored Sherlock Holmes was not a pleasant thing to behold. He strummed his fingers on a metal autopsy table, sending metallic pings echoing off the walls, he tapped his toes to music heard only in his head, and he let loose the occasional expletive guaranteed to cause any old ladies within earshot to die of shock, if they hadn't already met their demise due to other causes. It was in this frame of mind, victim of his own boredom and curiosity, that he decided to embark on a new type of experiment. He was going to bring back Molly Hooper's stammer.

Dr. Molly Hooper was his friend. One of his best friends, in fact. She ran the path lab and morgue with quiet efficiency and uncanny ability. She had learned to handle Sherlock Holmes in the same manner, but such had not always been the case. Molly had been infatuated with the tall, dark, and handsome detective from the first moment she laid eyes on him. This infatuation had intimidated her no end. She tended to stutter, and stammer when she tried to speak to him. She tripped over her own feet, and dropped things all the time. Sherlock's outward reaction was one of disdain, but inwardly he had always been rather pleased about her reaction to him. He had an ego which needed feeding, and Molly provided a feast! But over the years, this feast had diminished to a hearty meal, then a snack, to finally a few crumbs tossed his way. Hardly enough to supply the sustenance he required. A situation he was determined to remedy.

John Watson, friend, blogger, partner in crime solving, had now joined him in the lab, hoping to persuade Sherlock and Molly to join him for lunch between his rounds in the hospital cafeteria. As he walked up to the detective he was greeted with a question.

"John, Molly doesn't stammer anymore. Have you noticed?"

"She never used to stammer at me, mate. Just you."

"When was the last time you saw her trip? Or drop something?"

"Sherlock, where is this going? You hated it when she acted like that. You used to roll your eyes…"

"Maybe…"

"Come on, mate. It's been years. She had to get over that at some point. She's grown accustomed to you, that's all. Are you worried about something?"

"No, I suppose not. But maybe she doesn't feel the same way about me."

"Sherlock, are you saying you want her to feel the same way? Come on! People change. They grow. She's not the same person, and neither are you. You were gone for two years. She got engaged. I got married. I'm a father, you're a godfather. We've all grown. Do you really want her fawning over you like a teenager?"

"No, of course not! That certainly wouldn't be professional, would it? But when did it happen? And why am I just noticing now?"

"You've been busy, maybe? You've been dead?" John shrugged his shoulders, and walked over to Molly to invite her to join them for lunch, an offer she readily accepted.

Almost two weeks later, Sherlock Holmes was once again in the lab, trying very much to be a bother to the pathologist in question, when John Watson once again put in an appearance. As the detective was occupied staring down the microscope at an empty slide, John made his way to the office to speak to Molly.

"Hi, Molls, what's going on?" he said as he casually flopped into the small chair in the corner.

"You tell me! Is there something going on with the insulting defective that I should know about?"

"Like what, Molly?"

"I don't know! He's hovering, you know? He puts his hand on my shoulder. He brushes against me way more than usual. If he invaded my personal space any further I'd have to involve the UN!" the woman spoke in a puzzled, and somewhat exasperated manner.

"How long has this been going on, Molls?"

"A couple of weeks, I guess. My god, when I think what this would have done to me a few years ago…" She blushed at the memory of her former self.

"Ah, that's what's going on! You haven't been sufficiently impressed with his physical presence of late, Molly. His ego is bruised. He is an addict, after all. I think he's having withdrawal symptoms. Why don't you toss him a bone?"

"What the hell do you want me to do, John? Stutter my way through a lab report? Clumsily nick an artery during an autopsy?" Molly was on a roll now. "If I should happen to drop anything, it will be a very heavy something on his bloody big toe!"

John, while sympathetic, couldn't help but laugh at her frustration. "Well, you're not likely to get rid of him until you do. You know how obstinate he can be when he on the case. If you truly want to get him out of here, I suggest you blush, stammer a few words of admiration, watch his chest swell, and bid him goodbye."

"Not bloody likely, John. I'm done catering to his every whim…"

"Really? Because the last time I saw you at Baker Street, you were delivering a liver and some Chinese takeaway?"

"Point taken, you git. But I can manage all that without acting like a bloody schoolgirl nowadays, and I will not return to that behavior merely to stroke the ego of the most outlandish…"

"Okay, okay. But be warned. This is Sherlock we're talking about. He's not going to be happy until he reduces you to a stuttering mess once again. Are you sure you want to take him on?"

"Why not? Maybe I'm enjoying the battle of wills. Or the 'accidental' touches. Or the quick hugs. Or the hand on my shoulders. Or the smouldering looks. Or the…"

"Nevermind! I'm getting the point!" John shook his head with a smirk. "Shall we grab him for a quick lunch? Maybe he'll spill something on you, and insist on patting you down!"

"One can only hope!" Dr. Hooper laughingly rolled her eyes, grabbed her purse and followed Dr. Watson out of her office.

The following morning, a Saturday, Sherlock had agreed to meet John at a coffee shop near both of their flats to discuss the newest addition to John's blog. While the detective had repeatedly insisted that such a blog was beneath his dignity, and he did not wish to concern himself with such an insignificant matter, the opposite always proved true. Sherlock liked to micromanage everything, and the blog was no exception. John had waited patiently for more than twenty minutes for his friend to show his face, but still no Sherlock. He texted, but no reply. He was obviously being forgotten and ignored. As John had been required to make copious excuses to his wife Mary to get himself out of the house, he was more than a little put out by his friend's behavior, and decided to march himself over to Baker Street to confront him.

Mrs. Hudson met him as he opened the downstairs door. "Is he up there, Mrs. H? Bloody bastard stood me up!" At her affirmative reply, John made his way quickly up the stairs to his former flat, ignoring the landlady's feeble cries of protest as he muttered curses under his breath. Sherlock Holmes was not to be found in the sitting room. Or the kitchen. The bath? No.

As John approached the only remaining possibility, he could have sworn he heard a groan. Had something happened? Was Sherlock ill? But he was stopped dead in his tracks by the next sounds coming from beyond the bedroom door.

"Sh..sh..sherlock! Oh! Oh! Ye..ye..yessssss! Oh my go...go...god!" The words were followed by another deep groan and a girlish giggle. "PL...pl...pleeeeease! Sh...sh...sherlock! Oh...oh!"

John removed his hand from the doorknob which he had almost turned to enter the room, forever grateful that he hadn't. He chuckled to himself to think that Sherlock Holmes had, indeed, reduced Molly Hooper, once again, to a stammering schoolgirl. But he couldn't really decide who had won that particular battle of wills.


End file.
